Peered Out
by TrooperCam
Summary: Pre-Series story. What if what she told Mike Peterson was true and it wasn't the first time she had erased an identity? Chapter IV updated. Warning, story contains some adult language. Reader discretion is advised.
1. Chapter 1

**PEERED OUT**

The words stared back from the paper ugly and damning. Her hands shook lightly as she looked down at the single sheet evaluation in her hands. What should have been a happy day for her was just proving to be another in a long line of sucktastic days, another stumbling block in her life long search.

It wasn't as though she didn't know this could happen. From day one at the Academy they were being constantly evaluated. "Anything," they said, whether it was grades, weapons trainings, or peer evaluations could cause you to be dismissed from training. She had seen it happen before, two other cadets were released for failing weapons qualifications and a small handful were dropped after each chapter exam. But she had studied, kept her head down, qualified, and got to know her fellow cadets as much as she felt comfortable. It had all been for naught.

"Cadet Jones, are you listening?" Her head snaps up breaking her out of her thoughts. Across from her sat the disapproving face of Senior Instructor Sandra Martinez. Busted, she ducks her head, "sorry ma'am," she mumbled. Outside she could hear the happy chatter of her classmates. Words like "Cairo", and "Washington", and "Advanced School" flitted through the closed door. Words that celebrated where her classmates would be beginning their careers.

"You'll get sent a final check to your home of record in a few weeks." Martinez tells her. Inwardly, she scoffs. Her address, like her name and carefully crafted backstory were all a means to an end. Rebecca Jones was the only daughter of a single mother; she had two brothers, and had graduated from a large mid-western state university. Her record was pristine, not even so much as a traffic ticket marred her reputation.

But it wasn't enough. She wasn't an Academy ring knocker or a Ivy League graduate. Frankly, she just lacked the resources to truly permeate the inner circle. The Yale grad in her class couldn't find a clue with two hands and a map but he was on his way to Cairo with three of his fraternity brothers, his connections keeping him from receiving a similar piece of paper while she will receive a one-way ticket home.

"For what it's worth Cadet Jones I do hope you try again. I think you would be one hell of an asset." Martinez looks at her, "Take some time and think about it. Reapply in a year." Jones nods, stands up, and sticks her hand out. Martinez takes it and gives it a firm shake.

"I'll think about it."

But it's a lie. When she leaves here in a few days Cadet Rebecca Jones will stay behind, her final check will go to a post office box in Michigan. It will never get cashed. She will reinvent herself again and look for yet another path to find what she is seeking.


	2. Chapter II

PEERED OUT: CHAPTER II

The first thing she does after signed out for the last time from the Academy is head to the bank. If there was a plus side to spending time at the Academy it was this, she actually had money for once. Academy cadets received a small stipend, typically enough for personal hygiene items, dry cleaning, and a night out once a week but for a kid who had never even received an allowance, the zeroes in her account were enough to make her slightly dizzy.

She makes quick work of emptying her account and heads to a local hotel. It's not in the nicest part of town, especially for a single female carrying a sizeable amount of cash but is it clean, and quiet, and more importantly located near a 24-hour Internet café. The name and ID she uses is from one of her former classmates. Fortunately for her, the clerk at the desk was more interested in the Nationals spring training game than her and fails to notice she looks nothing like the driver's license she slid across the counter.

She makes her way to her room. It's small, slightly musty smelling, but clean nonetheless. She takes her money and begins to divide it amongst her meager belongings. It's a trick she learned years ago bouncing from home to home and old habits die-hard. It has served her well in the past and she prays to the patron saint of lost causes that it serves her well again. She smiles a small wry smile. The old penguins were right, there is some things you just never forget and in the great cosmic joke that has been her life the patron saint of lost causes is the one thing that has stuck with her. Lost causes, like this search, a voice niggles in the back of her mind. She pushes it aside; it won't serve her any good to focus on the parts of her past she can't fix. She's a shark and must keep moving forward.

The Internet café is quiet for this time of day. She buys a subscription and makes her way to a booth towards the back of the store, away from noisy neighbors and the prying eyes that followed her into the café. She logs in quickly to a off-shore server via a back channel access she installed prior to entering the Academy. Her account information is all there. "Perfect," she thinks. She will need this to access the Dark Internet, the parts of the 'net away from cat videos and Facebook status updates. The parts where, for the right amount of money, you can get drugs, weapons, child porn, or the created identity of a Midwestern only daughter of a single mother. She checks her account. It's low. She'll have to move some funds to her bit-coin account in order to pay for what she wants to do. In the meantime she'll move some funds from her fellow motel customers to her account to pay for her room. That will buy her a few days while she waits for a reply to her online request.

If she's lucky the same person who responded the first time will get in touch with her. If she's not, and she usually isn't, she'll have to go through whatever dance the new seller calls.

So she waits

And watches cat videos

There is no wrong ever in cat videos.


	3. Chapter III

When she has time to think about it later she realizes it was a set up from the go but sitting in the police station handcuffed to a table all she can think about now is how utterly and royally fucked she is at the moment.

"Name?" the booking officer asks looking at her with an interesting mix of boredom and disdain. She remains quiet.

"Didn't think I'd get an answer to that one, all things considered, so Jane Doe it is," the officer types the information into the booking file on his computer, "so do you want to at least give me your age or address?" She glares at him, her brown eyes focused on his face like two laser beams. Under the desk she pulls at the handcuff but the metal fails to yield. The booking officer looks at her with a tired smile.

"I would reconsider that if I were you. Unless of course you want to add resisting arrest to the charges." He points to the pile of documents sitting in an evidence bag on his desk and continues, "As it stands Ms. Doe you're looking at credit card fraud, identity theft, possession of stolen property, and forgery. Impressive wouldn't you say?" He doesn't wait for an answer.

She's processed into the jail and given a yellow jumpsuit that is comically too large for her small frame. The booking officer takes her to a cell at the end of the detention center and opens the door. Inside are two other females. One, a prostitute, is sitting crossed legged on the end of the bench and the other, a drunken co-ed, is attempting to get over being drunk by singing off-tune opera songs at the top of her lungs. It was she thinks, still better than her first time in juvenile detention when she was attacked by two older, bigger girls for her sneaker.

She's so tired it isn't long before she falls asleep curled up on the cement bench. She's woken up by the prostitute shaking her on the shoulder, "I think they're calling for you." She looks up. There is a different guard standing at the open door of the cell. He's holding a pair of handcuffs and leg irons and looking at her. She makes her way to the cell door and the officer cuffs her hands and attaches them to the chain running down her front to the leg irons he places on her ankles.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"You got a date with the magistrate."

He takes her to a room where a middle aged judge sits deciding bail for a couple of fraternity brothers who were running a pot business out of their frat house. The officer points to a spot on the bench along the wall and she takes a seat. For an hour she watches the judge decide who gets bail and who gets remanded to jail. Finally, a bailiff calls out her case number. She rises and makes her way slowly to the bench.

"Ms Doe, you've been charged with…"the judge's voice buzzes in her ears. When she realizes he has stopped talking she looks at him, it's apparent he is waiting for an answer. "I asked you, Ms. Doe, how would you like to plead?"

"Not guilty, your Honor," her voice sounds both rough and young to her ears. Her business done the prosecution and defense argue over bail. The prosecutor want to keep her in jail but the defense argues she poses no threat and has no previous criminal record. The judge weighs each side and makes his decision.

"Given the nature of the crime and its severity I'm inclined to remand you to jail till trial, but given you have no previous criminal record bail is set at 100 thousand dollars payable in cash or bond." He bangs the gavel and the bailiff calls the next case. Her heart sinks, she doesn't have that kind of money or "Let's face it," she thinks, "any money". What she had from the Academy was spent trying to get her new identity. The identity that turned out to be stolen and caused this whole mess. The identity she had for exactly 48 hours before police officers raided the hotel room she was renting and carted her off to jail. She doesn't have 100 thousand dollars. She doesn't have 100 dollars anymore. The officer leads her out of the courtroom and as she leaves she makes eye contact with a young man with brown hair sitting in the front row. She stares but breaks eye contact when he looks directly at her. She's taken back to lockup and placed in a new cell. This time her cell mates are yet another prostitute, this one older, and a very obviously tweaking meth head. She makes her way to the farthest corner of the cell away from the meth head and curls up on the bench. Despite her concerns about her cell mate she finds she can't keep her eyes open any longer. She falls asleep on the rough cement bench.

Hours later she feels a rough hand on her shoulder shaking her awake. She jumps up, fist at the ready. Some habits die hard and after her previous experiences with meth heads, she's ready for anything. It's not the meth head but the prostitute who takes a step back and thrown her hands up in submission.

"Woah sugar, calm down girl." The two let their hands drop, "The officer was calling for you." She points to the cell door where an officer stands waiting with a bored expression.

"You've been bailed out." the officer tells her. It takes everything she has not to stop and gawk at the man. There is no one who knows where she is or even if she's alive. A thought goes through her head that maybe the nuns at St. Agnes weren't kidding when they said all the kids were chipped so they could be found. She dismisses the thought. It would be too much of a miracle ever for her. The officer leads her to the front of the station. Standing near the booking desk is the same young man with brown hair from the day before.

"Sign here," the officer points to a spot on a ledger. He hands the man a stack of papers, "On top there is her court date. If she doesn't report there will be a warrant for her arrest so make sure she shows up." He turns to look at her, "You're lucky, normally we don't let people out this quick but frankly, the jail is overcrowded and you're considered low risk." He points at her," Make sure you show up and keep out of trouble." She's still in shock at the turn of events and nods dumbly at the officer. The man with the brown hair takes her by the arm and steers her out the front door. It's daytime and the harsh sunlight causes her to blink rapidly. The man stops at the edge of the station's front steps, turns to her and says, "I'm Miles, you hungry?"


	4. Chapter IV

Peered Out- Chapter Four

"I'm Miles." The man standing in front of her was to put it bluntly hot looking. Tall with shaggy brown hipster hair and beard he stood while she looked at him puzzled

I'm…" She hesitates for a moment, "…I'm River." She decides on the name of one of her two favorite characters from _Firefly_.

He grins, "You hungry River?" He hitches his thumb in a direction up the block, "There's a really good, cheap diner about three blocks from here." Without waiting for an answer he begins heading up the street. His stride is so long she has to run to catch up with him.

The diner is a converted Airstream Trailer, the type that people used to travel across the country to national parks in the fifties and sixties. Inside, the fifties vibe carried throughout with red vinyl booths and Formica tables. Despite the kitschy feel she found she liked it. The waitress directs them to a small booth in the back of the trailer. They sit and pick up the plastic covered menus. It occurs to her that she is more hungry than she thought. Her last meal had been a bologna sandwich on white bread with a container of milk. She looks through the menu and quickly decides on a burger and fries. Miles has already placed his menu down and is looking at her intently.

"What?" She's both curious at this guy and irritated at how he keeps staring at her like she was a lab experiment.

"You know what your mistake was right?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." She's getting more and more irritated at his Sphinx routine.

"You went for too much at once. Next time, you need to get one or two pieces then see about getting the rest. It's safer for all involved." He stares at her and she feels herself begin to squirm under his gaze.

"I don't know what you're talking about." To cover up her nerves she reaches over and snags a pile of Sweet-n-Low packets out of the sugar holder, "Seriously, I don't know what you mean."

He smiles, "We've been watching him for awhile. I'm surprised you didn't know. Seems someone who can reach out to Ivor Dragovic would also know he's been under surveillance by both the DC police and the FBI. I guess once he got caught he turned on anyone he could."

She stops playing with the packets, "Yeah, well, I've been busy lately." She is thinking about her time at the Academy and a small frown darkens her features.

"I can help make this go away. That is of course, if you want my help?" He looks at her, brown eyes gazing intensely into her own. She doesn't trust him but there is something honest in the way he is looking at her. Still, she is suspicious.

"Look, thanks but I don't need any help." The last thing she needs is to get caught in another sting. She makes to leave the booth when Miles grabs her arm.

"Hey, I get you have absolutely NO reason to trust me or anyone else. How about this, after we eat I prove to you I'm legit. If you still want to leave then you can?" He lets go of her arm and she sits back down in the booth. She is rescued from having to answer when the food arrives.

The house he takes her to is in a rundown part of town. The house itself looks like it ought to be condemned and when she goes to the front door she can see the foreclosure sign hanging the window. Miles grins and shrugs his shoulders as he opens the door. Inside is a marked difference from the outside. The space is clean, plainly furnished, with obvious curb leftovers but in the middle of the room sits what is an outrageously expensive computer server system. Her apprehension is immediately replaced by a combination of awe and jealousy. She goes to the system. On the screen are lines of scrolling code, moving down the screen at a rate that she can barely keep up. However, she catches one of the lines and gasps.

It a code she wrote herself.

"How, when, how did you get this?" She's shocked at what she sees on the screen. The code was one she wrote as a response to a challenge in a hacker forum. It was also at least four years old, written before she left High School for the last time.

"I was the one who wrote the challenge." Miles smiles shyly at her, his words full of obvious pride.

"Yeah, well, it doesn't work. I could never get the quantum key to interface properly with the sub header."

"I know," Mile sits down at the computer and types in a few lines, "That because I didn't give a key piece of information necessary to make it work. Yours came the closest though." Miles hits a few keys and a text box opens up in the upper-right hand corner of the screen. In it he types 100 in 60 and hits enter. After a beat a reply comes back 100 in 15. Miles enters a few lines of code and sits back, "Watch this." He hits enter. On the screen attached to the computer the images shifts from lines of code to the Russian government website. Across the middle of the screen an animated image of Russian President Vladimir Putin rides shirtless on a unicorn. All of the icons changed to Lenin and Stalin Russian nesting dolls. She begins laughing and found the absolute absurdity of it causes her to laugh harder and harder. To try and get herself under control she points to the text box in the corner, "What's that?" She asks between hiccuping breaths.

"A bet." He answers simply before continuing, "I bet one of my other team members 100 dollars it would take an hour for the site to be taken down. He thinks it will be down in 15 minutes. What he doesn't know is it is time locked to 60 minutes." Miles looks at her eyes gleaming, "Easiest 100 dollars I'll make. Now, I think you have some work to do." He gets up from his chair and points at the screen. She sits down. Miles has opened up the DC police intake log to her file.

"It's all yours."

She gets to work.


End file.
